


This Is All Now

by jdmcool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never wanted to be the responsible one, but it's hard not when the person he cares for most is a vicious drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is All Now

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117649695#t117649695) at the Sherlock Kink Meme.

If he had been born anyone else, any other person in the world, he might have been asleep when the low buzz of his phone vibrating on his desk filled the room. For Sherlock, though, it was nothing more than a excuse to get up from where he was lying in bed waiting for something to happen. After almost three hours of waiting, he was more than a bit thrilled to have the distraction.

Grabbing the phone, he smiled to himself when he saw Lestrade’s name. The man only called him for one reason and Sherlock was positively dying for a good case to distract him. He was probably the only person in all of London that hoped so passionately to get calls about double homicides and mysterious murders. It was one of his few vices and he had learned years ago to keep them to himself in polite company.

Picking up the phone, he leaned against the desk, feeling rather smug, as he asked “Lestrade, I take it you have a case for me?”

“Of sorts,” the DI said, sounding rather amused himself. “Found a guy in his car. Gun in his hand, brain splattered along the back seat.”

“You’re calling me for the sake of a suicide? Honestly, Lestrade. Even you could figure this one out.”

“Well, we did have it figured out until we got word of a bloke wandering around drunk with blood on him.”

Brows dropping, Sherlock shook his head.  “A staged suicide. Still seems as though you have your man. Why call me?”

“Because our suspect asked me to. Told me to say that he would like to see you and that his name was Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as the colour drained from his face. The urge to breathe was replaced by the urge to vomit as his mind shut down and body went into a state of panic. Opening his mouth, he let out a small noise, lips moving in a vain attempt to force words out of his uncooperative mouth. Running a hand through his hair, he tugged at it hard, until he couldn’t stand the pain anymore.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he dropped his hand to his side again. “Look, just... Don’t do anything with him. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Bit late for that. You can meet us at the Yard.

“Fine. Just... Don’t anything until I get there,” he demanded before hanging up.

Placing his phone in his pocket, he ran his hands over his face and sighed. It was the only reaction he could ever seem to muster up for Mycroft, not that it had always been that way. Sherlock remembered, rather clearly, the days when his older brother had been a good lad that constantly did everything Mummy and Father wanted, made time to help Sherlock out with his childish ventures. Sherlock swore that he would never forget those days when his older brother cared for him like an older brother should because it was better than the alternative.

Not that Sherlock could forget when Mycroft came home from university with no intention of ever going back because they were all so predictable. How and when exactly his brother had lost his passion for the world, deriving little to no pleasure in even manipulating people any more, Sherlock would never know. All he knew was that it didn’t take long for Mycroft to begin to fight off his boredom with a bottle. Father’s old scotch, gin, vodka; Mycroft would drink anything except beer, hating the idea of ever developing a beer gut because of his habit. If nothing more, the man was vain enough to stick to liquor that would keep him unhealthily thin.

Sherlock didn’t even remember when he became his brother’s keeper, seeing the man through proper rehab and going cold turkey. He used to think that maybe Mycroft might clean up his act during those times, had been so proud when Mycroft finished school and wound up with a job in the government, but even that had proven useless in keeping the man on the straight and narrow. Of course, it was hardly any problem that Mycroft was a vicious drunk as his job was eliminating those that the government saw no use for.

The fact that he now had to find a way to get Mycroft out of the Yard’s clutches was just the all time low in Sherlock’s life of watching out for him. Making his way to Lestrade’s office, Sherlock didn’t waste his time waiting or checking to make sure the room was empty.

He simply shut the door behind him and asked, “What evidence do you have against him?”

Startled Lestrade stared at him like he had lost his mind before closing the file in front of him with a sigh. “Well, for one, there’s the fact that he was found not all that far from a bag that contained a pair of gloves that are covered in gunshot residue. A bit of adhesive that have some hairs were found in it as well. Pretty sure those are going to come back to the victim.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with Mycroft.”

“And we’re going to check his gloves for fingerprints. Not to mention test the blood on him to make sure it’s the victim’s as well.”

“All because he was drunk and near the scene?”

Laughing at the question, Lestrade really did look as though he was about to have Sherlock committed or, at the very least, send him away for being such an oblivious idiot. “Man seems guilty as sin,” he said stressing that point heavily. “Once we get the evidence to agree to that, we’re putting him away for murder.”

“Right, because that’s a logical idea. Some drunken hit man killed your victim because... what? He was there?”

“I don’t actually care why he killed him. I just care that he did it.”

“You assume he did it.”

“At the very least, I can easily keep him put away for public intoxication until he sobers up.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “He’ll never make it.”

Seeming a bit less smug about the entire thing, Lestrade held up his hands. He wasn’t used to seeing the consulting detective look so terrified. Would have never thought the man capable of fear if he didn’t see the panic in those wide blue eyes.

“It’s a few hours in a cell. He’ll cope,” he tried to explain.

Sherlock didn’t care for the man’s explanations, though. He knew that Mycroft would never make it  long enough to sober up. Withdrawal would set in just as quickly and he couldn’t leave his brother alone with a bunch of idiot cops. He couldn’t leave Mycroft on his own to deal with that.

“Lestrade, please. Let him go and I’ll prove to you that this is a suicide.”

“You can try to prove that all you want, but he’s definitely going anywhere until he’s at least sober.”

“What has he said? Mycroft, what did he tell you?”

“To call you.” Lestrade leaned back in his chair with a sigh as he shook his head. “Look, whoever he is, he’s obviously not the sort of guy anyone should be associating with. Just let me do my job.”

“I can’t. He’s my brother.”

Opening his mouth, Lestrade merely let out another sigh. It was clear that he wanted to say something, anything to make Sherlock feel better about the situation because everyone always tried that. Tried to tell him that it was alright to ignore Mycroft or that everyone had a bad seed in their family, but they didn’t know Mycroft and had no right to comment on him and his weak nature. And seeing the firm set of Sherlock’s jaw as he narrowed his eyes in challenge, Lestrade quickly gave up on trying.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I really am, but I can’t make this go away.”

Which was exactly what Sherlock expected him to say because Lestrade, Christ, if he could’ve helped, he would have because he was a good man. He was a half decent friend too. Pacing the small office, hands clenched at his side, he wished he had entrusted Lestrade with the secret that was Mycroft and his habits. Unfortunately, it was far too late for that and Sherlock knew it all too well.

“You’re a good man. A good man and husband and detective,” he said softly as he finally stopped moving around.

Lestrade watched him wearily, not liking the sudden compliment or the way that Sherlock was more focused on everything outside the glass wall.  “What are you getting at?”

“I will ruin your career, marriage and life if you don’t get him out of there now,” Sherlock stated bluntly. “You already know I can get into the phones. Imagine what would happen if I got into the computers. I could make you look like just another corrupt officer.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Get my brother out and make this evidence disappear or else I will. And you know I will.”

“Are you threatening me?” Lestrade asked, not quite believing what he was hearing.

Tensing, Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

The argument Lestrade had building up in his head never came. There were three false starts, all of them ending with a shake of his head. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing from Sherlock. It was just as well given that Sherlock couldn’t quite believe what he had said. Still, if it was what he had to do to get Mycroft out of that cell, he would.

“You know,” Lestrade said, rising from his seat. “I hope he’s worth this. Worth throwing away any trust you ever had around here, Sherlock, because that’s what you’re doing. Fuck, if I can’t trust you not to screw me over, I certainly can’t trust you with a case.”

“I know. But I have to look out for him. No one else does.”

“Choosing family over your job? That’s rich,” he said, heading out of the office.

Within the hour Sherlock had made certain that all the evidence against Mycroft was completely nonexistent, Lestrade always lingering somewhere just out of sight so that way he could claim to be clueless about it all when it came up. Destroying evidence was something Sherlock was used to when it came to Mycroft. Hell, he’d been hiding bottles and broken furniture from his parents since he was a boy and this was no different. Larger and far more serious, but no different at the end of the day.

Evidence gone, there was no reason to hold Mycroft, considering that the CCTV footage was suspiciously missing from the moment when the man died. Broken camera being repaired was the official claim, but Sherlock knew all too well that that was simply the excuse used to cover up the fact that those in power knew exactly what was bound to happen in that car on that street. They likely even had the footage as proof, though they would never say so. Didn’t matter to Sherlock as he was led to the cell that held his brother.

Following in behind Lestrade, Sherlock forced himself to stay still and not go to where his brother was sitting on the floor, a thin film of sweat clinging to his skin, two day old stubble slowly growing into a beard. He was as whippet thin as Sherlock remembered him to be the last time he came across his brother and his sallow complexion spoke of the fact that Mycroft didn’t often ingest anything that didn’t come in liquid face.

“Oi, Holmes, you’re being released,” Lestrade called out, annoyed at losing his case and consulting detective.

Slowly opening his eyes, Mycroft stared blearily at them before smiling happily. “I knew I could count on you, Sherlock.”

“You’re already starting to shake,” Sherlock said accusingly, helping Mycroft get to his feet as he slung his arm around the man’s waist.

“There is a rather simple way to fix that,” Mycroft pointed out.

Disgusted that his brother wasn’t even out of the cell and already thinking of liquor, Sherlock shook his head. “No. We’re leaving. Lestrade... ”

Lestrade simply scoffed as he held the door open for them. “I seriously hope he’s worth it.”

“Sherlock, hurry up. I’m starting to feel sick.”

Looking at the friend he’d most certainly lost and his drunken brother that seemed like he would never drink himself death, Sherlock hoped that Lestrade was right as he headed out, Mycroft leaning heavily against him. Even with Sherlock helping, he was still a bit too out of it to walk steadily, although he couldn’t quite tell if that was because of the shakes starting to set in or the lingering alcohol in his system.

“Perhaps you could try drinking less,” he pointed out.

Smiling drunkenly at him, Mycroft chuckled in his ear. “Quaint.”

It was the same thing that Mycroft used to tell him when he was a child, showing off something that was so simple to his older brother out of pride. It was Mycroft humouring him in the most patronizing way and made Sherlock want to tell the man to get himself home on his own, but he couldn’t. Mycroft would likely find himself in a pub, getting into a drunken fight with someone or out on his next job and Sherlock just couldn’t let that happen again that night.

The easier choice was to get his brother in his car, let him curl himself into a ball against the door until they reached his home, wincing at every streetlight they drove past because he did need a drink if Mycroft wanted stave off the onset of his migraine much longer. But Sherlock couldn’t say that he cared about his brother’s pain enough to drive any faster than the speed limit, even on such an empty night. No, he took his sweet time getting Mycroft home and enjoyed every moment of it until they were inside the near Spartan apartment.

Something about watching his brother barely stagger over to the sink, holding himself with a white knuckle grip along the edge as he vomited up nothing but bile and booze put a hasty end to Sherlock’s Schadenfreude. With a shake of his head and a heavy sense of guilt, Sherlock went to get Mycroft flannel to wipe his mouth and new clothes, since his had to be a bit grimy from the sweat.

Upon returning to the kitchen, he wasn’t all that shocked to find Mycroft on the floor, downing a bottle of scotch as though it would fix everything, especially since Sherlock knew that it actually world for awhile. Turning on the faucet to rinse the sink, Sherlock wet the flannel before dropping to his knees and wiping Mycroft’s mouth. The man was clearly feeling rather desperate given how easily it was to get his brother into the clean clothes and moved over to the couch where Mycroft tended to sleep when he was in no shape to make it to his bed.

Sitting across from his brother in some overstuffed chair, watching as hazy blue eyes tried to focus on him, Sherlock rubbed at his face tiredly. “Why call me?” He asked, unable to figure out Mycroft’s logic when he was drunk.

“Why not?”

“You couldn’t have made it more obvious that you committed that murder.”

“Things... went poorly,” Mycroft said, trying to pick the best word.

“Poorly?” Sherlock laughed hysterically. “Mycroft, you killed a man.”

“He was a traitor that worked for Six.”

“And of course you were called in to handle the situation.”

Placing the bottle down on the floor, Mycroft slowly sat up, resting his arms on his lap as he leaned forward. “You sound upset,” he stated, rather than asked.

It was likely the worst part about Mycroft because even drunk he was still one of the smartest people Sherlock knew, seeing things that he often missed himself. And even worse was the fact that he liked to turn those powers against Sherlock, constantly trying to pick apart the only person who cared about him.

“I am upset,” he confessed. “I had to threaten Lestrade just to get you out. I may never get a chance to work with the Yard again.

“Pity.”

“And you don’t even care about everything I’ve just risked for you.”

Mycroft shrugged helplessly. “What would you like me to say? That I’ll turn myself in? Not likely to happen. I’d be dead before they finished the trial.”

“From your employers or the detox?”

“They know I would never admit to doing government work.”

“Why won’t you just give it up, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked tiredly, hating himself for starting the age old conversation.

“Why should I? I’m fine.”

“You can barely go a few hours without drinking. The moment you start sobering up you start going through withdrawal.”

“And I have enough liquor to keep me drunk for a very long time,” Mycroft pointed out, brandishing the near empty bottle like it was a cure for cancer.

Looking at the kitchen, where full bottles lined every cupboard and counter top while the empty ones filled the rubbish bin, Sherlock knew that those weren’t even the worst of it. Mycroft, like any other drunk, likely had bottles hidden around in case of emergencies. In case he ever went clean again and regretted it.

“I’m glad that you’re so happy with your bloody bottle,” he said, turning his attention back to his brother.

“Spare me your sanctimonious speech, won’t you?” Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes.

Oh and wasn’t that just the icing on the bloody cake. Rising to his feet, Sherlock could scarcely work up the correct response to that because there was no way in hell that Mycroft was being this much of an arse when he had literally risked everything he loved for the man.

“Spare you? I think after getting you out of jail I have the right to yell at you, My. I have the right to be pissed about the way you threw away everything just because the world doesn’t interest you.”

“Do I still have the right to ignore you?”

“I’m not messing about,” he yelled, hating himself for regretting it as Mycroft cringed, migraine still lingering in his head.

“No. You’re dreadfully serious, but you overlook the minor fact that I don’t care,” Mycroft pointed out, curling himself into a ball again as he clutched his bottle to his heart like a child. “I know I’m a drunk, I know what I’m doing to myself. I simply don’t care.”

“Why not? You could’ve been anything. You could’ve been running the bloody government but instead you, what? Kill people that anger your bosses?”

“And me. I’m fond of killing people that annoy myself as well,” he growled, glaring at Sherlock with those red rimmed blue eyes, the most obvious sign of the demon that lingered around his icy brother.

The worst part is, Sherlock couldn’t even say he was bothered by his brother’s claim. Clapping his hands slowly, he said, “Very nice. Threatening the man who got you out of jail.”

“It’s only a threat if I’ve no intention of following through with it.”

“You genuinely don’t care about anything, do you? Don’t care about yourself or your job or me.”

“Caring is not an advantage. After all, I’m going to continuing working tomorrow. What will you be doing with Scotland Yard all upset with you?”

And he couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t stay and listen to Mycroft mock him for daring to help the only brother he had and being candidly called an idiot for daring to care about him since Mycroft obviously couldn’t manage to care for himself, let alone anyone else.

Straightening his scarf, he looked over the grown man, curled up on a couch with a bottle and not a care in the world, with a familiar sense of sadness. “I’d say to watch out for yourself, but you never do bother with that.”

“Leaving so soon?” Mycroft sniped.

“Be careful. I can’t protect you forever. I shouldn’t have to.”

It was never fair to him given that Mycroft so rarely remembered anything he did. He never remembered the people he killed or the times he tried to take out his anger on Sherlock. He never remembered the positively evil things he said. The man was a walking blackout, something that had to make not caring easier. It must have been near impossible to care about someone who was scarcely more than a figment in that broken mind. Yet another thing Sherlock envied, since he would’ve given everything to simply delete every memory of his brother.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered, eyes drooping tiredly.

Waiting until Mycroft passed out, since the man didn’t fall asleep, Sherlock gently pried the bottle from his fingers and put it on the floor, so that Mycroft could easily find it when he woke. Covering his with a blanket, he kissed his brother’s forehead, gently fixing his hair before leaving with a muttered, “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

It may have been foolish, but Sherlock enjoyed his brother sleeping. At least then he could pretend Mycroft had never become the weak-willed addict he often was when awake.


End file.
